


I Second That Emotion

by firebrands



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands
Summary: Steve Rogers’ night is shaping up to be a disaster. He curses to himself as he makes his way through his small apartment for the third time, picking up pillows and strewn about clothes in an attempt to find his mock-ups.“Fuck!” he shouts, sinking onto the couch and cradling his head in his hands, feeling utterly defeated.Steve looks up at the sound of soft tap-tapping of paws against the wooden floor and Dodger sticks his head right under the crook of Steve’s shoulder to peer up at him.a modern AU with skinny!steve and well, tony stark.this is a fill for mystong bingo cardwith the prompt "mugging." i hope you enjoy!





	I Second That Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [duckmoles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckmoles/pseuds/duckmoles) for the beta! i appreciate you so much!!!
> 
> thanks as well to beth & amanda on tumblr who helped me out when i was wondering where the hell to go with this prompt! this is for you~
> 
> title from this lovely [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mv9cWgkpIZ4)

Steve Rogers’ night is shaping up to be a disaster. He curses to himself as he makes his way through his small apartment for the third time, picking up pillows and strewn about clothes in an attempt to find his mock-ups.

“Fuck!” he shouts, sinking onto the couch and cradling his head in his hands, feeling utterly defeated.

Steve looks up at the sound of soft tap-tapping of paws against the wooden floor and Dodger sticks his head right under the crook of Steve’s shoulder to peer up at him.

Steve tries very hard not to cry, but ultimately fails when Dodger dips his head under Steve’s hand, begging for pats. “Oh bud,” Steve buries his face into his dog’s soft, short hair. “You deserve so much more.” He wallows a bit more, thinking about how he’ll probably have to give Dodger up for adoption because he won’t have enough money to feed the both of them. 

Dodger wuffles up to him, resting his head on Steve’s lap. _ Dogs always know_, Steve thinks morosely.

After a while, Steve straightens up and wipes his face with the back of his hand, and looks around for a tissue. Instead, he sees the bright colors of the illustration he’d worked on poking up from under Dodger’s blanket. 

In the back of his mind, Steve was thankful that there was no one else to hear the high-pitched sound coming from his mouth as he dove to the floor, checking to see if those really were his mock-ups. The only thing running through Steve’s mind was _please please please_ _please_. 

Steve holds the illustrations up to the light and kisses them, then opens up his bag and slides the boards into a hard plastic envelope. He presses a kiss to Dodger’s head before running out of his apartment.

He’s down two flights of stairs (of course today was the day management decided to finally do maintenance on the wonky elevator) before he realizes he didn’t lock the door. Steve bounds back up, pats his pockets for his keys (left on the bowl by the front door), and finally clicks the lock shut before running back downstairs.

Finally, Steve stands on the stoop of his apartment building and stares at the street. He stares some more at the street that is currently glistening under the torrential rain. He briefly considers running back up to get an umbrella, _ but when the rain gets this bad umbrellas are basically useless, anyway… _ Steve takes a steadying breath and decides to leg it. They needed his mock-ups before midnight, and the office was only a few blocks away. 

Besides, it’s Steve’s fault in the first place for bringing work home; he very well could’ve stayed in the office and worked on them there. But he’d thought he deserved a bit of rest, and a bit of quiet (advertising agencies could get a bit much, particularly if it was past office hours).

A man sidles up to Steve and asks, “Hey man, where’s the nearest McDonald’s?”

Steve turns, mouth open and ready to tell this guy to buzz off, when he notices the man is holding something in his hand. Before Steve can even register what it is, the man says, “Give me your bag.”

“No,” Steve says gruffly, holding onto his bag strap tighter.

Steve’s friends had always told him that his mouth would get him into trouble. This is exactly what goes through Steve’s mind as the man holds up what was in his hand and _ oh, that’s a gun_.

_ But I need to give these illustrations to the office_, Steve thinks deliriously. _ What if I just ask him if I can take the illustrations out and he can have everything else? _

* * *

Steve wakes up and flinches away from the man crouched over him. The man raises his hands, placating.

Steve peers up at him and realizes it’s not the same guy, before looking around for his bag. With the way the man’s sitting on his haunches, he’s taking the brunt of the rain, which at least keeps the water from Steve’s eyes as he turns his head to look around.

Seeing that the only thing on the sidewalk are the bits of detritus that New York never seems to run out of, Steve lets his head fall back on the concrete with a soft thud. The man instinctively reaches out in an attempt to catch Steve’s head, but is too slow.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, Steve thinks dully. 

“Hey, do you need help?” the man asks, shifting a bit. “Do you need me to call 911?”

Steve may be crying. Or it might be the rain. One could say it was the rain. Either way, his face is wet and he means it when he says, “Just leave me alone to die.”

The man laughs, high and a little hysterical. “No, I—I can’t have that on my conscience too. Come on, let’s—” the man grunts, and Steve sneaks a glance at this unnecessarily kind stranger. He wants to ask what he means by “too,” but doesn’t. The man turns to face Steve, and their eyes meet. 

“I’m going to stand up now, and then I’m going to haul you up if you won’t get up on your own,” the man says, authority clear in his voice. It stirs something in Steve, despite everything. 

True to his word, the man stands up and offers his hand to Steve. Steve takes the man’s hand and turns his face away as he uselessly tries to wipe away any evidence of tears. The rain continues to batter down upon them.

When Steve turns to look at the man, the man is already smiling down at him. “How about we get out of this rain?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, feeling listless after remembering that he didn’t have a bag, didn’t have a wallet, and didn’t have any hope of getting a paycheck any time soon. 

“Hey, come on.” The man tries his best to make his smile encouraging. “I got you.”

They slip into the first restaurant they come across, which happens to be a greasy looking diner. The man waits for Steve to sit before sliding in the booth across him. It’s an old looking joint, or at least it tries to look that way; the seats are red and white leather, and there are old 60s-looking posters up, and they have a jukebox, too. 

“I’m Tony, by the way,” the man says, and after a few seconds of staring, Steve remembers his manners. 

“Hi, Tony,” he says, sounding shell shocked. He hopes that Tony chalks it up to finding Steve splayed on the sidewalk, and not because Steve is overwhelmed by how handsome he is. “I’m Steve.”

“Hi Steve.” Tony’s smile is wide and cheery. “Do you like pie?”

“I—yes,” Steve can’t draw his eyes away from how stunningly gorgeous Tony is, even with his hair plastered against his scalp. His long lashes have stuck together from the rain, but they still frame his soft brown eyes beautifully.

“Good,” Tony says, his eyes running through the list of items on the menu. The waitress comes soon enough, and Tony orders: “An apple pie and a cherry pie. Oh and two cups of coffee, please. And a bag of ice, too? Only if you could manage it.”

With the order taken, Tony turns back to look at Steve. “You’re sure you don’t need any emergency services, right?” he asks, as if suddenly remembering why they’d made each other’s acquaintance.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Steve says, sagging against the cheap leather of the couch.

“I mean, you got a pretty big shiner there,” Tony says, gesturing to Steve’s face and smiling abashedly.

So maybe Steve was in shock, because only now does the pain finally register. Still, he deserves it; he lost all of his stuff, even his phone, so the agency probably thinks he bailed on them, which means he can expect to never get any projects from them ever again.

“Hey, sorry, I—how can I help?” Tony looks concerned.

“Well I don’t have any money to pay for the pie,” Steve laughs mirthlessly. 

Tony waves him off. “It’s the least I could do,” he says. “What happened back there?”

Steve shrugs. “Oh, you know. Famous hospitality of New York.”

Tony’s lips quirk up in a rueful smile.

“Do you have anyone I can call? Or something?”

“Yeah, if you have the creative director of Ogilvy on you, that’d be great,” Steve says sarcastically, and his mom would probably give him a big talking to if she’d seen how he was acting now but Steve is tired, and done, and he’s mad at everything. 

Tony brightens at this, which confuses Steve.

“Actually, I have them on retainer,” Tony says, reaching into his coat pocket for his phone.

“Oh—no, I was joking, oh my god,” Steve says hurriedly, and reaches over the table to stop Tony’s hand as he’s scrolling through his contact list.

Tony looks at Steve’s hand on top of his, and Steve tightens his fist around Tony’s hand and phone. “Seriously, it’s fine, I don’t want to trouble you any more than—”

Tony’s smile widens into a grin. “Steve, I’d love to have you trouble me more.”

Steve feels his entire face heat up with a blush. “Oh,” he says.

Tony’s smile falters. “I mean, fuck, wow, sorry,” Tony shakes his head and pulls his hand away. “Sorry. My friends always tell me my mouth ‘runneth free.’”

Steve bites his lip, trying to stop a smile from blooming. “I don’t mind,” he mumbles.

Thankfully, the pie finally arrives, along with an unimpressed looking waitress who wordlessly hands Steve a bag of ice.

“Thanks,” Steve says to her, before gingerly placing the bag over his eye.

Tony regards him while taking a sip of his coffee.

Steve tries to figure out how to eat pie with half his face covered with ice, when Tony reaches over and cuts him a bite using the fork. He turns the plate back to Steve.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve asks, before raising the fork shoving the too-big portion into his mouth.

“Because you needed help,” Tony says simply. “For both the pie and the sidewalk, earlier,” he clarifies.

Steve frowns, and puts down the ice bag on the table. “No one really does that anymore,” he says. _ Least of all people who have agencies on retainer, or direct lines to big wigs, _ he thinks.

Tony shrugs. “I can go, if you want.”

“No!” Steve nearly shouts. “That’s not what I meant,” he adds, voice softer. “You don’t even know me.”

“You don’t know me, either,” Tony counters. “And yet here we are.”

Steve avoids responding by eating more pie, realizing how hungry he was.

Tony tucks into his pie as well, and makes a face. “This tastes terrible,” he whispers.

“Better than what I have at my place,” Steve grumbles.

“Why, what’s at yours?” Tony asks suggestively, smirking and cocking his head. 

“Nothing,” Steve deadpans, trying to fight down the feeling of a flush rising to his face.

“Seriously, Steve, if you need me to call Erik—”

“_Erik? _” Steve splutters. “You’re on a first name basis with—”

Tony holds his hands up, trying to calm Steve. “Or not! I just want to help?”

“Why?” Steve asks despairingly. “Seriously, why are you being so nice? Don’t you have somewhere important to be or something?”

“Well, I hate to break it to you but it’s 10PM on a Wednesday night.” He smiles again, but a bit tentatively.

Steve doesn’t budge.

“I don’t know,” Tony says, exasperated. “I was in the car and you were all alone on the ground, and I couldn’t just leave you there, you could get sick, or, well, I was thinking you could get mugged but I figure that’s what happened…?” Tony trails off. 

Steve sighs, polishes off the rest of his pie, and pushes it down with the bitter coffee.

Tony looks downcast as he takes small bites of his food, and Steve feels inexplicably sorry for it.

“Thank you,” Steve says, offering an olive branch. “I realize I haven’t said it.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says, smiling up at Steve. “You’re welcome.”

They sit in silence for a while, and keeping in line with the strange miracles of the night, the jukebox in the diner works. A Smokey Robinson song plays over the old speakers: _ Oh, but if you feel like lovin' me, if you got the notion... _

“So you work in Ogilvy?” Tony asks, trying to start the conversation back up again.

It has the opposite effect on Steve, who sags even lower onto the couch.

“Not really, I do projects for them sometimes,” he says. “But I figure I won’t be in their rotation anymore after tonight,” he adds bitterly.

“Do you… write?” Tony hazards a guess.

“No, I illustrate,” Steve says, wanting to move on from the conversation.

“That’s cool,” Tony says. “Never been good at creative stuff.”

“‘Creative stuff,’” Steve scoffs, making air-quotations with his hands.

Tony laughs. “The sass!”

Steve smirks, and drinks the rest of his coffee as Tony motions for the check.

“I’m really sorry for the trouble,” Steve says again, feeling mournful as the waitress hands Tony a piece of paper.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” Tony says, digging into his pockets for his wallet. He folds a damp bill in half and uses his coffee mug to pin it to the table.

They stand up and move towards the exit. “Thanks again,” Steve says, turning to Tony.

“If you don’t want me to call Erik, then at least let me bring you home,” Tony says easily, as he pushes the diner door open. The rain continues beating steadily onto the pavement.

“No, you’ve already been too kind,” Steve says, embarrassed.

“I don’t want you to walk in the rain again,” Tony says, and places a hand lightly on the small of Steve’s back as he steers them down the sidewalk.

“Tony, seriously,” Steve feels his face flush at the contact, and he turns to face Tony to show him that he’s _ serious _, but movement means Tony’s hand is pressed against his stomach. Steve swallows. 

Tony raises a hand and clicks on a remote, and the headlights of the Audi beside them flash as it unlocks.

“Too late, here’s my car,” Tony grins.

Steve raises his eyes to heaven in silent prayer. But even he doesn’t know if it’s a prayer for help or one of thanks.

Tony opens the passenger side door, absolutely soaking the interior with rain as he does, and Steve climbs in. He tries to make himself as small as possible, horrified that he’s probably ruining the leather of the seat just by existing.

“Where to?” Tony asks, running a hand through his wet hair and divesting his jacket. The rain has caused his shirt to stick to his skin, and Steve stares at the way his muscles move and shift as he starts the car and puts it into gear.

“Steve?” Tony asks, smiling slightly.

“Oh,” Steve says, licking his lips. “It’s two blocks down from here,” he says, a bit mortified at how near his apartment is, and also at how Tony obviously caught him staring.

They drive in silence, and Steve continues to sneak glances at Tony.

“Here,” Steve says softly, and Tony stops the car in front of Steve’s sad, old apartment building. Steve wonders if he should ask Tony for his number, but pushes away the thought—Tony obviously had more important, more _ attractive _, people in his rolodex of contacts.

Steve turns to Tony to say thank you, but is struck by the strange, shy look on Tony’s face. _ Could that mean…? _

“Do you want to come up for a cup of coffee?” Steve asks, then immediately covers his face with his hand when he realizes that they just had coffee. “Sorry, nevermind, thank you, goodbye,” he says, words rushing out of him as he fumbles for the door handle.

“I’d love to come up for coffee,” Tony says, laughing a little. He unlocks the door and Steve stumbles out of the car.

“The elevator isn’t working, so feel free to change your mind,” Steve says, wiping rain out of his eyes as he fumbles for his key.

Tony has his hands crossed behind his back as he looks around, completely unaffected. Steve stares at him for a moment, the way he looks in the rain, hair wet, white button-down nearly translucent. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he finds this block charming, as if, despite the rain, he's _happy_.

Tony glances down at Steve, and Steve is jolted away from his thoughts. 

“Come in,” Steve says, pushing the door open and motioning Tony over. They’re quiet as they walk up the stairs.

Steve opens the door to his apartment and is greeted enthusiastically by Dodger. Dodger, a large pitbull, easily overpowers Steve, and pushes him back against Tony.

“Oof,” Tony says, hands rising to Steve’s arms to steady them both.

“Sorry. This is Dodger,” Steve says, moving away from Tony and pushing Dodger down with his hand. “I hope you’re not allergic to dogs,” he adds, just as Tony bends down to pat Dodger’s head.

“Hey little buddy,” Tony _ coos _ , and Steve balls his hands into fists because he feels it now, more than ever, that _ oh no _ feeling that signals he’s going to fall in love with this person, if he hasn’t already.

Steve quickly rearranges some things while Tony is distracted, and then runs to the closet to grab towels and shirts.

“Here,” he says, handing Tony one of each.

“Thanks,” Tony says, straightening back up. Dodger bumps his head against Tony’s leg affectionately as Tony dries off his hair.

“I’m not sure if the shirt will fit you,” Steve says. “But the bathroom’s over there.” He points over for Tony to see.

Tony hums in response, bending down to pet Dodger again.

Steve feels a chill run through his body from the cold, and peels off his shirt, wiping himself down before putting another one on. He’s not even thinking about it, doesn’t aim for seduction, which is why he startles when Tony whistles.

“Here I was thinking I was invited up for coffee.” Tony grins suggestively. 

Steve blushes. “I could still make you a pot, if you want,” he says, feeling a bit brave as he moves toward Tony.

Tony shrugs. “Plenty of other ways to keep me up,” he says.

Steve smiles, and contemplates the strange karmic forces at work as he inches closer to Tony.

Tony smiles down at him, and Steve wants to draw that smile, the way the sides of his eyes crinkle up, the dusting of stubble around his well shaved beard, the swell of his lower lip. He reaches slowly up to rest his hand right where Tony’s jaw meets his neck, and Tony lets out a soft breath. Steve looks up at Tony, and pulls him in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://firebrands.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/firebrandss)!


End file.
